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by DestinyWolfe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Clint and Sam are bros, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Short, Steve and Bucky are soulmates, Stucky - Freeform, also t'challa is the best, and some angst, anyway, bucky is still in cryo, cuteness, enjoy my christmas ship trash, he even made sure they got lights for their safehouse and shit, just because, mostly - Freeform, nat and clint are soulmates, nat and steve being cute, nat and steve talk about their boyfriends, now I'm just rambling, well I mean kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/DestinyWolfe
Summary: It's the holiday season, and Steve and Nat are alone by the fire. They talk about their soulmates, and what it's like to almost lose them. One Shot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. I got bored and wanted to do Christmas stuff, so I wrote this. Enjoy my holiday Marvel trash one shot y'all.

“What was it like?”

Steve looks up, a slight crease between his eyes, at Natasha’s question. The sketchbook balanced on his knee wobbles dangerously. He catches it in one hand, folds the cover down, and sets it on the pillow beside him. “Huh?”

Natasha settles herself on the back of the couch. She purses her lips, and tilts her head. As always, her sea-foam eyes are difficult to read. But Steve’s had years of practice. At this point, he’s not sure there’s much either of them could hide from the other. Which is why he immediately knows, from her expression alone, what—or rather, who—this is about.

“Oh.” He takes a deep breath. “Letting him go, you mean. Letting him go back into cryo.”

She nods. “I was surprised. When I heard. You lost him once, Steve. I’m shocked you could do it again.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s what he wanted.” He swallows, and averts his gaze, opting to stare at the decked-out Christmas tree and the warm, crackling fire instead. For the time being, he and his team are stuck in some safe-house in the far north, with T'Challa’s firm assurance that no one will be able to find them for a long while. They’re fugitives, yes, but comfortable fugitives, at least.

Natasha is silent for a long moment. Steve turns to look at her, and half expects her to be gone. She’s not. She’s still perched, stiff and motionless as an ice statue, staring at something beyond his line of sight. He shifts, and realizes: Clint’s standing just inside the kitchen, leaning on the entryway frame, a mug of hot coco cupped between his palms as he jokes with Sam. But Natasha isn’t listening to their conversation. She’s watching Clint, her eyes following the movement of his lips. Steve looks down, and sees that her hands are curled into fists around the edge of the couch. When he looks back up at Sam and Clint, Clint’s head is thrown back as he laughs. The bandage covering the left half of his throat is clearly visible. A near miss, but a miss nonetheless. Clint’ll make a full recovery, they’ve been assured. No risk of permanent damage, and the threat of infection is almost zero. And yet.

“I didn’t lose him,” Steve says. He hopes it’ll draw Natasha’s attention back to him. It doesn’t. She’s still watching Clint, eyes fixed on his face as if trying to memorize every line and curve of it. As if she could be deprived of him at any moment. “Years of world wars and Nazis and neo-Nazis trying to take him away from me, and he’s still here. Even if he’s not, you know.” He makes a vague gesture around the room. “ _Here._ ”

Natasha does look at him then. Her lips curve up into one of her rarest smiles. The kind that fully reaches her eyes. The kind that makes her look younger, smaller, more vulnerable. Soft in a way that no one would expect a hardened assassin trained by the Red Room to be able to look. “Merry Christmas, Steve.” She slides down onto the couch beside him. Tucks her legs up against her stomach, and folds her arms around them, lacing her fingers together. She rests her chin on her knees, and exhales softly.

Steve feels a comfortable warmth blossom in his chest at her quiet companionship. “And a happy New Year, Nat.” He watches the fire, tracing burning embers with his eyes. Next year, maybe, he thinks. Next year, I can come home. Because home has never been a place for him. Brooklyn is his home, sure. Of course it is. But really, when it comes down to it, _home_ for Steve Rogers has always been Bucky Barnes.


End file.
